


pocket-sized

by decinq



Series: the february revolution [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Jack Knew First, Kiss The Ice, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack says, “Tearing up a bit there, eh?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	pocket-sized

**Author's Note:**

> i know it's risky business writing this when we know there are two more updates coming in a few days time, but i fear nothing, there is nothing sacred in the kingdom of god etc etc. i proposed, on twitter, that my buds give me prompts for something to write based on 2.16, and this is...not really any of them. it's maybe a bit of a mix of them. 
> 
> anyway, jack's happiness is all i want. he's my boyfriend and he's hot and i love him. the end.

_Now if you never shoot, you'll never know_  
_And if you never eat, you'll never grow..._  
_She's begging you,_  
_"Stay, stay, stay, stay, stay."_

_-robbers, the 1975_

 

 

Bittle gets out of the water before Dex or Nursey, and as he makes his way up from the shore to where the rest of them are lazing in the shade, Jack has to reel himself in. He knows he’s obvious, can tell from the way Shitty looks at Jack out of the corner of his eye before wolf whistling at Bittle.

 

Bittle says, “Shut up,” and rolls his eyes, but a flush rises on his cheeks, and Jack wishes he could take a photo of him, sunkissed and damp and laughing. He nods at the towel beside Jack, and Jack tosses it to him. Jack forces himself to look away while Bittle dries off, busies himself with clicking through the pictures he’s already taken on his camera.

 

Bittle says, “Hey Jack?” from above him, and Jack looks up at him, a question on his lips. Bittle shakes his hair out like a dog, spraying water all over Jack.

 

Jack says, “Oh my god, _stop_ ," before going for Bittle’s legs, curling his fingers around Bittle’s knees and tugging as Bittle yelps and tries to jump away.

 

Jack leans away, but narrows his eyes at Bittle. Bittle is still giggling when he says, “Oh come on, like you wouldn’t have done the same.”

 

Jack’s veneer cracks at that, and he smiles as Bittle drops down beside him on their blanket. “Fair enough,” Jack says, relaxing his shoulders. He clicks through his camera a bit more, gets a shot of Shitty smiling down at Lardo. Bittle is sitting cross-legged by Jack’s feet, tapping at his phone. Jack’s legs are bent at the knees, and there’s really not that much space between them. If he dropped his knees a bit, flexed his ankles, his toes would press into Bittle’s leg.

 

It’s warm and the weather is turning more and more humid with each day, spring into summer, a million little seconds that Jack will never get back. It’s nice in the shade, though, the little bit of safe space they’ve carved out for themselves, out of the sun and free, for this little bit, from the rest of the world. Jack flexes his toes, digs them into the blanket and then relaxes. Bittle has his head tilted to the side, is listening to whatever story Shitty is telling. Jack flexes his ankles and his toes touch Bittle’s thigh, cool from the drying water. He relaxes his ankles and it’s like it never happened, no reaction from Bittle.

 

He does it again, makes sure he’s looking over at Shitty when he does it. Bittle looks down at where Jack’s feet are pressed into his thigh, looks at Jack, and then back at Shitty. It all happens in less than a second, fast and subtle and telling Jack nothing.

 

Jack forgets about it for a bit, really. He and Ransom are trying to defend Tim Horton’s in a discussion that Jack doesn’t really understand. Ransom says, “Ice Caps are the shit, okay? End of discussion.”

 

“They’re just…” Chowder says, looking confused, “Frappuccinos.”

 

“They _aren’t_ ,” Ransom says.

 

“They’re really not,” Jack says. “They’re definitely better.”

 

“How, though?” Holster asks.

 

“There’s no reason,” Ransom says, and Bittle leans back on his hands. When he does it, Jack’s foot shifts against Bittle’s leg, and he flexes his ankle so that the balls of his feet are pressing into the soft skin above Bittle’s knee.

 

It’s entirely intentional, no question about it.

 

Bittle doesn’t react, doesn’t say anything, and so neither does Jack.

 

.

 

Jack kisses the ice, and it hits him.

 

He signed a contract with Providence two weeks ago, and he’s going to look at apartments with him mom after graduation, but it’s this, knees on the ice, that makes it really sink in.

 

This is it.

 

The ice is cold, which is something he always knew, has known since his brain was developed enough to know anything, but he’s not sure he’s ever done this. His lips feel chapped on the ice, and he’s horrified, suddenly, that they’ll get stuck just like in the _Christmas Story._  He can’t believe he hadn’t thought of that before. He breathes deep, in through his nose, and focuses.

 

Jack’s not a highly suspicious man. He has his hang-ups, and he likes his routine, but he’s met worse offenders than himself. But he knows that this is an important tradition. He knows, logically, that Faber, or the ice in Faber, this circle, can’t hear him. There’s no way for it to know anything he’s thinking. It’s an ice rink. A sheet of frozen water with lines on it.

 

But it meant something to Jack. Meant something to Shitty. It’s the reason all his friends are here right now, this stupid building and this stupid sheet of ice all for a stupid game. It’s what brought them together, his ragtag team, and he loves them, each of them, desperately, and he has to get ready to say goodbye to this.

 

All of it.

 

And so Jack knows that the ice can’t hear him, can’t read his mind, but his thinks a purposeful, quiet, soft _thank you_ anyway. Just in case.

 

When he sits up and opens his eyes, Shitty is crying. Jack says, “Tearing up a bit there, eh?”

 

Shitty says, “Fuck you, Jack Zimmermann,” and he’s crying, and he looks sad to Jack, but there’s fondness in it too. Shitty is a fucking weirdo, but he’s Jack’s best friend and Jack is going to miss living with him.

 

.

 

They get up to the roof, and there’s a bit of a breeze. The sky had been blue all day, and Jack doesn’t remember much from high school, but he remembers doing Geography 12 online, remembers learning about how clouds keep the earth warm, how they insulate the heat from the sun. Clear skies mean everything escapes, nothing there to keep the night from getting too cold.

 

Shitty sets up the little fire-pit, and Bittle made a pie. There’s beer, and Lardo has a little blanket around her shoulders. It’s so normal, and Jack has to step away from it for a second, overwhelmed by how happy it makes him to be a part of it at all. There are so many different ways his life could have gone. Drafted first, Vegas; drafted second, Tampa; overdosed on his bathroom floor, dead. A different school, Boston College or Harvard or Yale. Any of them could be anywhere else, across campus, across the country, in a different country.

 

He takes a few photos of the expanse of Samwell, spread out in front of him. He’s been up here before, but he’s never taken a photo of it. Just because he’s seen it before doesn’t mean he’s tired of it, doesn’t mean he wants to throw away the opportunity to appreciate it one last time.

It’s a weird thought, knowing that it’ll be the last time you see something. Jack went to Paris with his parents when he was fourteen, but he always wanted to go back. But it’s the same feeling, seeing paintings by Van Gogh and looking out at the Champs from the Eiffel Tower. It’s the same looking at Samwell, the campus a small twist of street and buildings and lives. And it’s the same when he turns around and sees his friends, facing each other and chatting in the fire light.

 

Jack feels sad, but he’s lucky to be feeling it, and he knows that that’s important.

 

Bittle is rubbing at his arms, and he says, “I didn’t know it’d be s-so,” and Jack has his jacket off his arms, and over Bittle’s shoulders without thinking about it. Bittle never layers up enough. Maybe Bittle never took grade twelve geography.

 

“Oh! Thanks Jack.” Bittle’s cheeks are flushed, but it could be from the fire, could be from the beer.

 

“No problem,” Jack says.

 

Bittle is swimming in Jack’s jacket--sleeves too long and covering his fingers, big in the shoulders. But Jack likes it on him, feels his own cheeks heat up as he takes a seat beside Bittle.

 

They fall into conversation quickly, easily, but by the time Jack’s beer is empty, Bittle seems like he’s sitting closer to Jack. Maybe Jack is sitting closer to him. He’s not sure what the difference is. All Jack is sure of is that the space between them is barely there, Bittle’s knee almost close enough to be touching Jack’s calf. Almost there, but not quite. Jack wishes that they were anywhere else, then. That they were alone. He wants to cherish this time, knows that this is it, the end of the line--but he wants other things too. There are things he doesn’t want to miss. Chances that, he knows, will pass him by if he doesn’t make a move soon.

 

There’s a feeling, in the bottom of his gut--and it’s been there, on and off, for the last year--that is telling him to try. To just say something. To be brave. If he doesn’t try for it now, if he doesn’t tell Bittle, doesn’t something about the way the space between their legs is both massive and miniscule, he’s never going to get another chance. If he doesn’t go for it, he’ll never know what he would have missed. And it’s scary, but it feels--

 

It feels like it’d be worth it, even if it were messy and complicated. Jack is messy and complicated, too. Everyone is more than one thing.

 

And maybe that feeling that Jack has been chasing for the last year is just that: maybe it’s warm and maybe it hurts a bit, too, like a thumb pressed into a tense muscle. Maybe love is easier than he ever thought. Maybe it fits into the space between his calf and Bittle’s knee, on the blanket under them, maybe it’s in the slight flush on Bittle’s cheeks. Maybe it’s the way Bittle slipped his phone into the pocket of Jack’s jacket and left it there an hour ago.

 

Maybe the feeling Jack has been chasing for the last year isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s not lurking, not hidden away. There are no dark corners except for the ones Jack has made up. He’s save. He’s going to be fine.

 

Leaning back on his hands, he wants to reach out, wants to touch his pinky to Bittle’s and twist them together. It’s barely any space at all, a few centimetres and a breath, and it’s nothing but it means everything, and maybe that’s the point of all of it. The feeling Jack’s been chasing is huge, but it’s precious, too; it makes his heart race, but it’s pocket-sized.

 

Above them, the moon is huge, the sky dark. Up here, on the roof of Faber and under a skyful of stars, Jack can be whoever he wants. He doesn’t need to worry. His chest feels a bit tight, but he thinks it’s just homesickness--he’s loved Samwell, and he’s going to have to leave it behind. Leave this part of himself behind with it.

 

Bittle’s knee presses into the back of Jack’s calf, and Jack presses into the contact. When he turns to look at Bittle, he’s biting at his bottom lip, but when he looks up at Jack, he smiles.

  
  
  



End file.
